


Harlequinade

by greerian



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Ableist Language, Denial, Fights, Fucked Up, Gen, Guilt, Hurt, I'm not really sure how to put tags on this one, Lies, M/M, Making Out, Melancholy, Religious Guilt, Self-Esteem Issues, Slurs, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:59:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerian/pseuds/greerian
Summary: "that part of a pantomime in which the harlequin and clown play the principal parts."Elder McKinley plays the harlequin. Elder Cunningham plays the clown.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elderxprice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderxprice/gifts).



Arnold smiles a lot. More than he lies, even. _That's_ a feat, let him tell you. He's always smiling, pretty much; at strangers, friends, his mom and dad. Somebody told him once "a smile is the prettiest thing a woman can wear," and, well- if it works for women, maybe it will work for Arnold. He started smiling that day, and hasn't stopped. 

It's _great_ , really. He smiles when things are awkward; he smiles when he doesn't know what to say. Arnold smiles when he's happy, and when he's not. He smiles when he's lying, and especially when he manages to tell the truth. It's a real useful trick. Most of the time, people even smile back. 

Then Arnold gets older. He gets _braces_ , he gets acne, and the wild cowlicks spattering his scalp get a lot less endearing. 

"You look like a q-tip, Arnold," his mother complains. "I wish we could just shave this mess off. You would look so awful without it, though." It, the mess of tangled black hair so rough it could have come off a horse. Aw, wait, no - _coarse_. He should have said 'coarse.' Coarse, horse; a horse is a horse, of course, of course. Ha. 

But that's another reason why Arnold has to smile. He's annoying. Everybody knows it, and a lot of them _say_ so. He's annoying and weird, and kind of a _loser_. 

"Not that that's a bad thing," his dad will add. "You'll grow out of it, Arnold; you're only in middle school." Then it was high school, and then Arnold was graduating and he didn't have a party because when his mom tried to come up with a guest list the only names were her friends from church. Arnold didn’t grow out of it. 

But he still smiles at people. He doesn't have a great smile, of course, because he's the ugly weirdo in the middle left of the classroom, but at least he looks better with a smile than a frown. Right? 

Then: "Look at that freak," somebody says. "He's always grinning. What's he so happy about?" 

"I dunno, man," their friend replies. "Maybe he's just happy." 

He's not, Arnold's _not_. He isn't, he's- 

"I heard he was special needs. I think he's SpEd, so..." 

"Oh, he's retarded. That makes sense." 

Arnold's smile falters. 

"Leave him alone; he's just smiling." 

"Yeah, whatever. Still creepy." 

So Arnold tries to stop smiling. It's too late, though. He's practiced smiling since before first grade, and you can't get rid of a habit like that. 

At least he knows why nobody cares if he's lying anymore. 

Arnold lies about his homework, and smiles. He lies about understanding, and grins. The tutors he's assigned give up on him in days. His teachers swear him off at Parent-Teacher conferences. And that's got _nothing_ on the church. 

"Arnold," Elder Tomenko will ask, with the patience of a saint, "did you memorize that verse you promised for today?" 

"Yeah, Elder, of course! But, uh, I had this _really_ big test last week, and then there was this crazy weird _dream_ I had, about the angel Moroni and the Death Star! And after all that it kinda just went _straight_ out of my head, you know? I've just got too much in there, cluttering it all up." 

Elder Tomenko will sigh, pat Arnold's shoulder, and say "That's all right, Arnold. We'll try again next week." 

Arnold never gets it right. 

He doesn't even try, though. Why would he? He never _got_ the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, _any_ of those books he's supposed to know, and that was when he _did_ care and _did_ try. Why would they make any more sense now, when everybody expects him to know it all already? 

Besides, they all say he's going to hell, anyway.

Arnold has no idea how he gets into the Missionary Training Center. He has even less of an idea how he gets through it. It’s probably to do with his smile. It makes him look like he’s trying.

And Mormons are _nice_. Unfailingly so. It’s a defining trait; it comes with the territory, along with the lack of fun Christmas stuff and list of rules. Nobody wants to fail him, so nobody does. His parents are proud. Arnold, though - he doesn’t care much one way or the other. Going on a mission is the next step in a good Mormon life. He’s gotten this far, coasting, and doing what other people want. What’s two more years?

Turns out they’re going to be in Africa. With Elder Price. That’s the kind of mission people brag about. The kind they say “It was the most blessed time of my life,” about. The kind that makes people say “My companion and I were inseparable; we’ve been friends ever since.”

That could be cool, right? Actually having a _friend_ . A best friend - one who can’t avoid Arnold, or run away, or hide from him in the bathroom so they don’t have to work on their Civil War project together. After all, if people think Arnold is special needs or crazy, they’ll know he isn’t once they talk to him. The rules say Elder Price can’t go anywhere without Arnold, and he’s, like, the best Mormon _ever_. He won’t break the rules.

So Arnold doesn’t feel too bad about being loud around him. He doesn’t have to worry: Elder Price _can’t_ leave, and they’re going to Uganda! Arnold doesn’t know where that is, exactly, but Africa’s a big continent, and it’s very far away. They’re only going to have each other. Which means… Elder Price is going to rely on him.

Arnold’s smile grows. It even looks real, for a minute or two.

* * *

 That’s before he really gets it. It’s awful here. People _die_ , here. In awful, painful, drawn-out ways. There’s fear more than happiness, screams more than songs. And nobody ever cries. Arnold doesn’t see it for _months_. Everyone- they just get these real stony faces, like they can’t show anything. Like they don’t feel.

Neutrogena doesn’t, but she’s special. She’s pretty different from the rest of Kitgali. Arnold thinks that’s why they got along so great at first. They’re both weirdos. She’s pretty, though. And nice. And when she smiles, people smile back. Arnold still gets confused looks or glares, more often than not.

He tries really hard to fit in, but the Kitgali-ites who _aren’t_ in the church still hate him. Not because of anything he did, though, so that’s a first. They hate him like they hate every other missionary: they’re white, well-off, and male. They don’t have to worry about getting their clits cut off. Though, a few of them are aware that Arnold got General Butt-fucking-Naked to leave them alone. That earns him a surprisingly low number of brownie points.

“Elder Cunningham, could you _please_ acknowledge that you are a member of this district, and therefore also responsible for our future?”

Arnold starts, freezes, sighs. Yeah, district meetings. They’re the only thing worse than walking through Kitgali alone.

“Yes, Elder McKinley,” he drones.

“I’m not asking for much,” McKinley replies, in that clipped way he has. “I just want you to recognize that you are the primary cause of our fall from grace, you are the current head of our makeshift church, and _you_ are our main connection to the people here. It’s important that you _pay attention_. And stop smiling like this is some kind of commendation.”

 _You think I don’t remember all that? Since you guys shove it in my face every day?_  “Okay, Elder McKinley.”

Elder McKinley’s jaw works. “Thank you,” he grinds out. “Now, we have to make some tough decisions, elders. We-”

District Nine wasn’t thrilled to be kicked out of the church. Who would be? Even Arnold was upset, but these guys - they spent their whole lives preparing for their missions, especially Elder Price. Arnold comes along and fucks everything up by yaking because he wasn’t used to silence. No wonder they hate his guts.

Sure, it was fun, at first. Some of the rules were total bullshit. Even Elder Price got in on it at first. He sure took to morning coffee. But now they’re all rebounding. All sitting in mass-produced uniforms, losing their body weight in sweat, on the couch Arnold swears he’s seen a boom slang slither out of. Facing at least the next year and a half without what they’ve had as a backbone for the nineteen years before.

Elder McKinley tries hard to hold firm and act the way he was supposed to, as an official district leader. He fails, but the district is willing to play along. Poptarts gave up first, on everything. He’s a greedy guy, grabbing first at the food they scrounge up. Right now, his eyes flick towards the kitchen every minute or so. He’s probably going to eat the last of the bananas as soon as Elder McKinley stops.

The rest of them wear masks of malaise and frustration. You can see the feelings on their faces, mixed up like chocolate-vanilla soft-serve. None of them want to be here right now, in the living room. If Arnold were to ask, he’d bet none of them would say they want to be here, on their missions, either.

He doesn’t ask, though: Elder McKinley’s talking.

Arnold’s attention drifts. Why would he _want_ to listen to yet another recap of why they’re screwed? That’s all these meetings are, and nobody can come up with a solution. Not even Elder Price.

Not that that’s surprising. Something changed him, their first week here. Arnold doesn’t know what, but the Elder Price from the MTC wouldn’t stare at a wall unblinking for a solid hour. This new Elder Price does that weekly. He’s hallway into a trance now, Arnold thinks - with his eyes blank and shoulders hunched like that, that’s what it has to be. He acts different, going into those, too. A few days before, he’s snippy, and he jumps at footsteps; after, it’s like he’s gone to a very far-away place, and is slowly finding his way back. He doesn’t talk much, anymore.

“Elder Cunningham, wipe that grin off your face! You’re being extremely disrespectful. Do you think this is funny?”

They all look at him, all of District Nine. Except his companion. Elder Price has folded his arms. He’s still as a statue.

“Elder Cunningham, do you think _any_ of this is funny?”

“No, Elder McKinley.” They’re all staring, and Arnold grins wider and wider and nobody’s moving, nobody _breathes_ \- Arnold laughs.

“That’s it,” Elder McKinley says. “Outside. Now. Elder Price, Elder Thomas, you too.”

Right. Rule 72.

Arnold shoves himself out of his chair and shuffles towards the front door. Two sets of footsteps follow; one sharp, quick, angry; the other drags.

“Elder Price.”

Arnold does not want to turn around. He doesn’t want to see Elder McKinley’s face screwed up in anger, and Poptarts’ gaze on the floor, and the way Elder Price just isn’t responding.

“Elder Price! I swear-”

“Don’t bother,” Arnold says finally. “He’s, uh… not gonna come.”

“He’s…” Elder McKinley makes some sounds of incredulity. “He’s not-”

Arnold heads outside.

It could be the weather that’s making everyone so nasty these days. Heat plus rain plus overcast skies equals humidity to make your hair flat and mosquito swarms everywhere. It’s muggy. The air sticks to your skin like a damp blanket - all the parts that aren’t on fire from sunburn or bug bites.

Arnold feels the threads of his own mind fraying.

Not as much as Elder McKinley, though. He’s spitting mad when he pulls the door shut behind himself and his companion, red-faced to match his hair. He narrows his eyes at Arnold, and Arnold is pretty darn sure he could shoot lasers out of them if he wanted to.

“You have to take responsibility for this, you know,” he spits. “That whole escapade you pulled -  this is _your fault_. It’s because of you we’re in this situation. We’re out of money. Soon, we’ll be out of food-” Poptarts winces, over Elder McKinley’s shoulder. “-and district leader I may be, but I’m not going to let this all fall on my shoulders. We have to work to find some way out of this, and you, Elder Cunningham, should at least take it seriously! It’s not that hard! Just think about how many people could die if we mess up, and maybe losing your precious villagers will smack that stupid grin off your face!”

Arnold leans back against a post holding up the corrugated plastic roof over their heads. “It’s funny you say that.”

“ _Funny_?” Elder McKinley’s tone is nearing a screech. “Isn’t everything funny to you? Elder Cunningham, _please_ enlighten us as to why exactly _anything_ I’ve been saying is funny.”

“We wouldn't be having this conversation if you had just listened.”

A beat. Just enough time to breathe in. For Arnold to wonder what the heck he just said.

“Excuse me?” Elder McKinley asks. His hands are balled up and he takes a step closer and maybe Arnold will end this day with his very first fist fight.

“Yeah,” Arnold says. “You heard me. None of this would’ve happened if you had listened to me.”

“Can I go inside?” Poptarts questions, raising his hand.

“No!” “Yeah.”

Elder McKinley glares daggers.

“None of the rules matter anymore, Elder, come _on_ ,” Arnold tells him. “Look, rule seventy-two was screwed from the start. So were the rest of ‘em; they don’t work out here. They don’t make sense. Let Poptarts go inside, and you can yell at me all you want.”

“I’m not yelling!” Elder McKinley cries. “Elder Thomas, don’t you _dare_.”

“Poptarts-”

“ _Elder Thomas_.”

“Uh, he’s the head of the church.” Poptarts nods to Arnold. He won’t meet either of their eyes. “So I’m going to head back in.”

His feet shuffle against the dusty desk. The door unlatches, creaks open, swishes closed, clicks shut.

Arnold turns to Elder McKinley, smiling.

“C’mon,” he says. “Hit me with your best shot.”

“I can’t _believe_ you.”

“ _That’s_ your be-”

“Be quiet! I’m not finished.” Elder McKinley starts to pace. “So this is my fault, because I didn’t listen to you? Listen to _what_ , Elder, your- your _stories_? Believe it or not, I have read the Book of Mormon and I have seen  Star Wars, so putting the two together isn’t something I need _you_ to do. But the inane… the, the stuff you come up with! _That’s_ what I should be listening to to get us out of this?”

“You pulled me out here ‘cause you don’t like my attitude, so that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?” McKinley hisses. “I never can tell, between the sci-fi, the sins, and the outright bullcrap.”

“It’s not bull if people believe in it. But that’s not the point! I mean you wouldn’t _have_ to find a way out if you had listened to me in the first place.”

Elder McKinley throws up his hands. “Yes! Thank you!” he declares. “That’s exactly the right solution: going back to before you knew anything at all about Uganda, or _apparently_ the Book of Mormon, and listening to your sage advice then! What a fantastic idea, Elder Cunningham!”

He closes the distance between them and in an instant, shoves Arnold back against the pole.

It’s splinters digging into his back, and hot hands on his chest, and blazing blue eyes, and Arnold doesn’t know when the nothing he felt shifted into anger. But that’s what it is. That’s what he’s got; and for _once_ \- He shoves Elder McKinley back.

“Stop being a jackass and listen to me!”

“Watch your mouth!”

“How about no? How about you own up to being a shitty district leader and admit that if you had listened-”

“I am not a shitty district leader! _You_ are a failure of a missionary, a failure of a Mormon, and you have the nerve to tell me this is _my_ fault?”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna hurt. And it _is_ your fault! You know it is, and you keep blaming me! But if you had noticed I was feeding everybody a bunch of made-up crap, maybe none of us would have gotten in trouble!”

Elder McKinley doesn’t say anything to that.

“You know it’s true!” Arnold shouts. “No baptisms, but nobody would’ve gotten hurt, either. I wouldn’t be a prophet, I’d just be the crazy, weird, white guy. Elder Price wouldn’t be messed up. The other elders wouldn’t hate me. We wouldn’t be de-funded or shut down or not even part of the church. You wouldn’t be a failed district leader! And that’s _all on you_ , ‘cause you just wanted to look good. You were fine with letting me do that, with skipping over protocol to screw everybody over, ‘cause Heavenly Father forbid you not get enough baptisms. Well, _now_ look. We both failed. We’re gonna starve out here or go broke just trying to get home; I almost got this whole village killed; the religion I _made up_ isn’t fooling anybody and it’s not even helping, and… and I just…”

His smile falters. Elder McKinley crosses his arms.

“So now you’re going to feel sorry for yourself? How mature of you.”

“You wish!” Arnold grins, and shoves again. “I’m gonna make _you_ feel sorry for yourself, ‘cause what do you have to look forward to? I’ve always been a loser, but what happens when you go home, Elder McKinley? Or, Mr. I’m-Gonna-Let-My-Feelings-Out. Mr. My-Hetero-Side-Just-Won. Mr. Oh-Whoops-I’m-Gay-And-Going-To-Hell-So-I’m-Gonna-Make-Everyone-Around-Me-Suffer-For-It.”

“You-” Elder McKinley bites back whatever he was about to say; Arnold hears the click of his teeth. “If I’m going to hell, I’ll see you there,” he says, instead, and now _he’s_ starting to smile. “Liars and fags get the same punishments, last I checked. We’re _both_ abominations, and-”

“Stop,” Elder Price says.

Elder McKinley blinks. Arnold hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten, but now he does. He could count his district leader’s eyelashes if he wanted to. That’s way too close.

So Arnold backs up. He turns to his mission companion to see the way he’s braced against the door frame, like he’d fall without support. Elder Price looks very, very tired.

“Stop yelling,” he says. “You’re scaring us.”

Then he goes back inside.

Elder McKinley and Arnold stay on the deck, breathing hard. Completely still otherwise, though. It’s like being visited by a unicorn. Or like realizing you’re being a complete idiot where everyone you know can hear you, and your severely damaged maybe-friend has to tell you to stop.

“I thought you said he wasn’t going to come,” Elder McKinley says.

“I didn’t think he would.”

“Is he… okay, do you think?” It’s strangely tentative. And that look on Elder McKinley’s face- oh.

Arnold slumps. “I dunno,” he mutters. “I dunno, he just- he wasn’t like this before. Definitely not at the Missionary Training Center. He won’t tell me what happened, but something _did_ , and…”

He sighs. So does Elder McKinley.

“Another thing to worry about,” McKinley says. He walks precisely, neatly, over to the wall of the house and sits down against it. After a second, so does Arnold.

He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s already worrying about it, and it’s not doing any good. If Elder McKinley wants to get in on the action Arnold’s not going to stop him. After all, that’s probably his fault, too. If he’d paid attention to Elder Price instead of just lusting after him when the guy was gallivanting across Northern Uganda, _maybe_ he wouldn’t be like this now. If, though, and maybe.

They sit for a while, catching their breath.

“Why do the rules matter so much to you anyways?” Arnold asks, finally.

He glances over at Elder McKinley. Elder McKinley does not glance back.

“Why do you _think_ , Elder?” he replies. “Since you’re such a people person. Since you know so much about everyone. Why don’t you just _guess_.”

And, yeah, that one’s pretty obvious.

“You’re not a f- a… a that word.”

Elder McKinley huffs. “Oh no?”

“Nah. F-fags are, like, cigarettes, or bundles of wood or something. Not… people like you.”

“Well, I _am_ gay, Elder. Can you find a better word to encompass exactly what that’s like?”

“Hey, you’re admitting it!”

Now Elder McKinley looks at him. Raises his fingers in air quotes. Says “‘Mr. I’m-Going-To-Let-My-Feelings-Out,’” in a real high voice.

“I don’t sound like that,” Arnold protests, still laughing as he shoves Elder McKinley’s arm.

It’s weird, though - he doesn’t let go afterward. Shoves aren’t usually grabby, but Arnold finds his palm wrapped around Elder McKinley’s upper arm and it decides to stay there.

Elder McKinley doesn’t comment.

“Oh, yes,” he replies, cracking a smile. “That’s exactly what you sounded like, Elder.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Arnold says. Or thinks he says. The warmth under his hand is kind of distracting. So is the solidness of it; Arnold _feels_ the flex when Elder McKinley leans forward. Wow, what kind of badass biceps does he-

“Elder,” McKinley starts.

And Arnold realizes three things at the exact same time. First: he’s fondling his district leader’s arm. Second: there’s an erection valiantly pressing its way up against the crotch of his pants, born of adrenaline and probably an unhealthy amount of shame. Third: Elder McKinley’s eyes are very, very blue.

Arnold sighs. “We’re both pretty fucked up,” he says, just to get that out there.

“We… are, yes.”

“...wanna make out?”

“What?”

“I dunno, just - you admitted you were gay, and I’ve kinda got a shame boner going on, and nothing matters anyway ‘cause like you said, we’re screwed.”

“I didn’t say that,” Elder McKinley mutters.

“Yeah, well, you meant it, and like _I_ said… the rules don’t matter that much. We’re already bad missionaries. How much worse can it get?”

Elder McKinley takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth to say something and visibly reconsiders.

“All right. You assume rules are the only reason why I wouldn’t kiss you, but there _aren’t_ any rules against making out with boys. Nowhere. It’s subtext, because the church assumes you’ll have enough common sense and moral rectitude to- to _not_ do that.”

“Okay,” Arnold answers. “But do you want to?”

Elder McKinley doesn’t reply. Arnold gets a great view of his thinking-face profile as he looks out at Kitgali for a while. A mosquito buzzes past, coming to rest of his clenched jaw.

Arnold gently flicks it away.

“Okay,” Elder McKinley says. “Fine.”

“Uh, what?”

And Arnold swears he sees Elder McKinley roll his eyes as he cups Arnold jaw with one hand and leans in.

“This is ridiculous,” McKinley mutters, “for my first kiss.”

Arnold’s eyes open wide, but then their lips meet - and they flutter closed.

Elder McKinley does not taste like Nala. He tastes like breakfast this morning, and a little bit like toothpaste. He does not welcome Arnold in. He doesn’t even open his mouth for a second there, and suddenly Arnold wonders if he knows what making out even _is_.

Once he gets past _it’s not Nicki Minaj_ in his head, though, Arnold can appreciate the differences. Stubble. Strength. Tension that he eases out of Elder McKinley, slowly. Licks and nips that Elder McKinley takes to well. And the hand on his thigh, of course - that’s different, too.

Elder McKinley has very nice hands. Broad, and strong. Hot. If Arnold hadn’t sweat through his uniform already, he’d do it now. Just from a hand resting on his thigh.

It’s better than Arnold thought it would be.

Maybe ‘cause he thought it would hurt. He thought Elder McKinley would take his words, his anger, his _guilt_ (yeah, Arnold knows he feels guilty) and use it here; use it against Arnold. He’s not, and it’s… good. It’s almost sweet.

Maybe Elder McKinley needs it as bad as Arnold does.

“Hold on a second,” he whispers, and he’s pulling away. Arnold grabs his tie. “I’m not- just-” Then Elder McKinley settles over Arnold’s lap. “Just trying to make it more comfortable.”

“Oh,” Arnold says. He’s not letting go of the tie. “Good idea.”

“You didn’t think I was taking this seriously, did you?”

Arnold looks up at Elder McKinley’s red face. His hair, limp in the humidity. His lips, parted and flushed.

“Yeah, I did.”

“You’re lying.”

Arnold smiles.

They kiss a while longer, until there’s enough sweat for Arnold’s grip on Elder McKinley to slip, and the boner in his pants really becomes a problem. They kiss until it stops being so weird, and Arnold doesn’t feel like lying anymore. They kiss until he whispers “We’re not fucked up,” against Elder McKinley’s hot mouth. “We’re-”

He’s not sure what he wants to say instead. He doesn’t know what the truth is.

But it’s Elder McKinley’s turn to smile, and Elder McKinley’s turn to say:

“Yes, we are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos/comments if you liked it!


End file.
